


Brother's In Arms

by Tarlan



Category: Now and Again, Strapped (1993)
Genre: Drama, First Time, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-29
Updated: 2006-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/pseuds/Tarlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years have passed since Michael's reincarnation lost him his wife, Lisa. Seven years have passed since Matt's divorce. Two lonely men find they can be brothers in arms in more than one way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother's In Arms

The slow spread of quick-build ceramic hand guns was a major problem in New York City. There had been a time when weapons this specialized had been a rare and expensive commodity, bought only by the higher paid soldiers in the local Mafia, or by assassins and government agents. Now, any two-bit mugger with delusions of elevating their criminal status seemed to be able to lay his hand on one of these.

They were almost impossible to detect, having no metal to set off the alarms and being easily broken down into indistinguishable parts that would not attract the eye of even an experienced X-ray operator. With practice, the gun could be stripped down and reassembled in minutes.

For Detective Matthew McRae it was just one more nightmare to add to the list that had rocked his life over the past seven years.

He had watched his marriage fall apart, had listened to Kelly's one-sided conversation on his answer phone, telling him about the man she had met - and intended to marry. He tried to be happy for her but, damn it, he had only signed the divorce paper a little over a month earlier. That was seven years ago and he was still unable to move on.

Why?

He could freely admit that he had loved her, but never enough to put her before his work, so why was he still pining for her? Why had he not found someone else to share his life?  
Others had managed to move on.

McRae snorted softly to himself as he recommenced battle with the new computer they had placed on his desk a few weeks back. Divorce rates in the Police department were sky high and McRae realized he knew of only one person whose marriage had survived that rocky road: his ex-partner. Some of the guys he knew were on their third or fourth wife but he had yet to find anyone to replace Kelly. The thought of joining the singles scene, prowling the bars for a one night stand, was just not his scene. Sex was supposed to be special, between two people who meant something to each other. When he gave himself to someone it was because he wanted to share all of himself, not just his body. He wanted someone who would laugh at the same jokes, someone he could talk with, and someone who could share the companionable silences as well.

Maybe I'm aiming too high? Looking for another Kelly.

Kelly had been his childhood sweetheart. They had grown up together, attended the same school, and taken similar classes. She had been his girlfriend for as long as he could remember and everyone had always assumed they would get married. They had not disappointed anyone in that respect although, looking back, McRae realized that the love he had felt for Kelly had never been like the heart-stopping emotion of a Hollywood film. Their love had been almost incestuous; like brother and sister.

Was that so wrong, though? They had been so accustomed to each other, knowing each other's moods, understanding each other's needs. Or so he thought. McRae sneered. It was always so tempting to look back through rose-colored glasses but, although there had been plenty of good times, these had often been overshadowed by the bad times; times when Kelly would make demands that he just could not meet. Then had come the ultimatums, especially towards the end of their marriage. Everything came to an end on the day she realized that he would not change, and she could never change him.

Even so, he did still love her and he had found no one who came even remotely close to replacing her in his affection, and yet all he truly missed about her was the companionship, having someone to talk with, to touch and hold. He missed being held in loving arms. Instead, each night he went back to his lonely hovel of an apartment. It was a far cry from the home he had shared with Kelly, but he spent so little time there that it was not worth the effort of trying to do something special with the place. The apartment was forever being trashed anyway so there was little point. Instead, he spent most of his time working.

Perhaps I ought to just call the office home, and be damned.

He looked around the busy office at that thought. Despite a refurbishment, the office still looked tatty. A lick of paint could not hide the crumbling plaster, and a few fake potted plants could not turn the sterile room into a lush and welcoming paradise. Desks were crowded together with barely enough room to walk between them: phones ringing, raised voices, computers humming, printers clattering. All of these added to a cacophony of sound that was enough to a drive a weaker person insane... and he had been surviving in this asylum for over a decade.

McRae let his eyes swing towards the sectioned off area that housed the Chief's office. The door's shutter-blind was open and he could see Evans through the open slats, pacing back and forth, and waving his hands about as he conversed with someone out of sight. He realized that if he had been paying attention earlier then he might have had some idea of who it was that had Evans looking so uptight. Not that he really cared, but any distraction was welcome if it drew him away from this damn PC and the ongoing battle he was warring against it.

Turning back to the computer with a sigh, McRae tapped on a few more keys, letting his thoughts drift as always. He was still expecting Evan's to haul him into his office and introduce him to some wet-behind-the-ears rookie, but the thought of taking on a new partner after all these years was abhorrent. McRae cursed when he hit the wrong key and lost all the data he had been inputting, silently berating himself for losing concentration at such a vital moment.

That seemed to sum up his life though. Losing concentration, letting his attention wander when it ought to be focused on the job at hand. How many times had he let the ball slip from his grasp due to inattention to detail? And why?

McRae had to admit that his working life was, perhaps, an even bigger shambles than his marriage had been. He tried his best to get the guns off the street but the law was an ass. Possessing or selling guns was a Class C felony, and those caught were rarely sent down, just slapped on the wrist and told not to do it again. It was hardly worth all the effort he put into each case, and McRae wondered just how long it would be until someone in the budget department noticed and closed down the whole unit.

And would I even care? Would anyone care?

It seemed to McRae that nobody did care how many guns were being sold, and to whom, until one of those weapons ended a life. Class C felony to murder in one small twitch of the trigger finger.

Then there was Diquan Mitchell. It seemed as though his thoughts always returned to Mitchell and the way the system had let the young man down. They all knew he was innocent, from the lowest street punk to the highest judge, despite the evidence to the contrary. However, until the guilty party stepped forward, everyone had to accept Mitchell's admission of guilt. McRae still hated himself for the way he had used Mitchell, coercing him into becoming his snitch, although he never made Mitchell any promises he could not keep. In exchange for information, he had promised to try and get Mitchell's heavily pregnant girlfriend, Latisha, let off a drugs charge. He had kept that promise, but to no avail. The Attorney's office would not listen, not prepared to give up a sure-fire Class A drugs conviction over a possible Class C gun felony. In hindsight, McRae was willing to admit that he had misrepresented the power he held to Mitchell but, at the time, it seemed a necessary evil.

It had started to go sour the moment he stopped looking at Mitchell as a tool for getting his police work done and started seeing him as a real person. McRae could still remember that simple conversation, where Diquan had outlined his plans for getting out of New York City and opening a shoe shop, wanting to take his girlfriend and their unborn child away from the ghetto.

With a good word, Mitchell might get out in another two years, having already spent seven behind bars but McRae wondered what Diquan Mitchell was like now. Was he still the smart kid full of energy and enthusiasm, looking forward to impending fatherhood? Or was he now just another embittered man, hardened by his experiences inside prison?

Fatherhood. That was another word that stirred up uncomfortable memories. Kelly and her new husband had started a family almost immediately - and she had looked so radiant and proud as she pushed the baby carriage along.

Should have been my little girl: Kelly's and mine. Why didn't I want kids when I had the chance with Kelly?

It seemed so stupid to be wishing for something he had never desired at the time of his marriage. He shook his head and sighed as he started keying in the lost data once more. Seven years and he was still in the same rut, still dodging bullets from guns wielded by kids, still pining for a life that he had never truly wanted but had been comfortable with; a life he had thrown away due to his inattention to the small details.

"McRae."

He looked up from his desk and saw the chief beckoning to him, and sighed deeply. Inside the chief's office, McRae could now make out the figure of a man and he made a silent bet with himself that this long-dreaded new partner had just arrived. His earlier wish for a distraction from the PC had been granted, but McRae decided that this was one wish-come-true that he could have well done without.

He dragged himself to his feet and trudged towards the chief's office like a man on his way to his execution, pausing on the threshold to see his worst fears realized. The man seated in the Chief's office could only be in his mid to late twenties. His short mid-brown hair was well cut, the blue eyes bright and inquisitive. The man looked like a male model, draped in casual but obviously expensive clothing, making McRae wonder just how ambitious this new man was, and how that would affect this partnership.

"McRae, this is Michael Wiseman."

"New partner?"

"Temporary partner. Mr Wiseman will be assisting you in tracking down the source of those ceramic guns."

Michael Wiseman watched with interest as McRae leaned heavily against the door frame, seeing the appraisal in the dulled green eyes as McRae pulled out a cigarette, lighting it up before taking a deep drag. There was something about this man, something undefinable. He could feel it like some resonance deep inside. Michael watched McRae expel a plume of blue-grey smoke, his eyes following the nebulous cloud from the pale lips as it spiraled towards the newly painted ceiling.

"You know, aside from the health issues, smoking raises your premiums on..."

"What are you? An insurance agent... or a cop?"

"Neither, actually. Well... not anymore."

He felt his mouth twitch, feeling unfamiliar warmth as he studied the tired man, and then feeling saddened when he noticed the years of neglect etched into an otherwise handsome face. He felt a strange empathy with this man although he could not understand why. Maybe it was the way McRae seemed so alone in the crowded, bustling office? A reflection of the way he felt, walking through his own life like a stranger at an intimate dinner party. Evan's rough voice, loaded with irritation, pulled him from his thoughts.

"McRae. Just get your skinny butt in here and sit down... and put out that cigarette."

Michael held back a grin as McRae gave a grimace before leaning over further and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray just outside the chief's door. He moved into the office and dropped into the seat placed about two feet away. The grin finally escaped when McRae sent a small glare in his direction. It seemed as if he was determined not to get along with him and was, probably, hoping his attitude might convince both Wiseman and Evans to go partner him some place else.

"Not gonna work, McRae. You're working with this guy, so can the attitude."

McRae looked back at Evans with a chagrined expression; it seemed the chief knew him far too well for his own good. He sighed and leaned back in the seat, hands opened wide in an expansive gesture and waited for someone to outline the deal. Michael decided not to keep him waiting too long.

"The CEO of one of the banks worst hit by the recent spate of robberies is very influential in the... higher areas of our Government--"

"By that I suspect you mean he pays big to someone's election campaign."

Michael grinned, liking McRae more with every passing moment. It was so good to meet someone who was not interested in playing the political game, someone who was prepared to say what he meant.

"Yeah... you're probably right. However, it means that someone wants the supply line closed down... and I've been assigned to do just that."

"With my help?"

"Yeah."

McRae sighed and rubbed his hands over his tired eyes.

"Not gonna be a huge amount of help. I haven't got that much to go on... No one's talking, so whoever's dealing has gotta be big to have the snitches running scared."

"So, what have you got?"

"A little bit I've pieced together from throwaway lines, from one source or another. Nothing concrete."

"I believe Mr. Wiseman will be able to supply a little more information gathered from other sources. I suggest you both stop wasting your time sitting on your butts in my office and get to it." Evans watched both men rise and head for the door. "Oh, and McRae. I want a regular update on this one."

McRae gave a terse nod, recognizing the tight expression on Evans face. He knew the chief hated being forced to cooperate with unknown entities, being very protective of his men. McRae gave a sideways glance at Mr. GQ as they headed across the crowded office to his little piece of claimed territory, sinking into the seat behind his desk and waving Wiseman into the chair opposite. Begrudgingly, he turned the screen so both men could view and then held out the keyboard, no words being needed to explain what he expected Wiseman to do.

-ooOOoo-

The recently abandoned warehouse was on the waterfront, secluded enough so that it was unlikely that anyone would overhear any gunshots, and even if they did, the kind of people living around here would keep it to themselves.

From his vantage point, McRae could see where some hobo had set up camp the night before, obvious because of the empty bottle of whisky and the makeshift shelter made up of paper, cardboard and rags. His eyes dwelled on the ripped pieces of an old crate that were lying on the floor in front of the shelter in a blackened heap. No doubt, once night fell, the homeless would crawl out of their holes and start adding more wood from these old crates to their fires. It made him realize that, as bad as his life had been these last seven years, it could have been a whole lot worse.

McRae eased his head around the side of a damaged but still relatively intact crate, ignoring the roughness of the wood beneath his fingers, and knowing he would have a date with a pair of tweezers later to remove the coarse splinters that were embedding themselves into his flesh.

Between the information he had gathered, and that supplied by Wiseman, McRae was convinced that the supplier to the street dealers was someone he had tried to close down many times before: Benjamin de Lorenzo. If they could find out where he gained his supply of the ceramic guns then they would be one step closer to closing down the supply line.

However, first they needed physical evidence that de Lorenzo was selling ceramic weapons but finding a street dealer willing to work with him on this one was impossible. Using his pretty-boy, temporary and unknown partner had been the only recourse.

The staccato of a small sub machine gun filled the warehouse followed by whoops of pleasure from the operator. Wiseman was a strange one all right. He had all the appearance of a twenty-something but the attitude of forty-something entering his second childhood. The thought made him grin. His ex-partner had accused him of having that same attitude. As he took in the lean yet well-built figure of Michael Wiseman, McRae realized that appearances could be so deceptive and, perhaps, this mental attitude was why they related to each other so well, meshing as a team painlessly despite all McRae's earlier fears to the contrary.

"I'll take four of these babies."

"Don't get too eager. Got plenty more to show you."

De Lorenzo's predatory gaze swept the area, the man smirking at Wiseman's obvious enthusiasm, and McRae ducked down quickly to avoid being spotted. He knew he ought to have stayed in the surveillance car but he wanted to be close at hand just in case things went wrong. McRae frowned as that protective streak reared its head once more, flipping over his stomach. He could not understand why it should be so strong towards Michael Wiseman when he had worked with others without experiencing this feeling.

The safety clicking off another weapon pulled McRae back from this self-analysis before it went to deep. It had taken over a week to set Michael up as a credible street dealer, and McRae had called in a lot of markers to make it happen. He could only hope all the effort was about to pay off.

"Hey. What's that?"

"This baby? She's a special order. Expensive piece of hardware."

McRae watched Wiseman lift the handgun, gripping it firmly and sighting down the barrel. He let off a single shot that splintered into the wood close to McRae's head, and McRae berated his partner silently.

Jeez, Wiseman. I'd like to keep my head intact if you don't mind.

The conversation carried on between de Lorenzo and Wiseman.

"What's so special about it?"

"Ceramic... no metal parts. Kind of gun secret agents use."

"No metal parts?" Wiseman gave de Lorenzo a wicked smile. "How many you got? How much each?"

"Just the one... but I'm waiting another shipment any day now. As to price...?"

McRae missed the rest in static as de Lorenzo steered Wiseman away, the rasp of material moving over the hidden microphone drowning out his words, but price was unimportant. They had the proof that de Lorenzo was dealing these guns and now, all they had to do was wait for that package to arrive and then backtrack it to the source.

-ooOOoo-

It was amazingly easy to get a warrant to intercept de Lorenzo's mail and tap his phone, there being none of the usual fuss over an individual's rights being upheld, or the sanctity of the US postal service. It seemed as though proving de Lorenzo was part of the supply chain was enough, for once, but McRae knew it had nothing to do with a change in attitude higher judicial layers. Rather, it had everything to do with the pressure bring brought to bear by certain influential bank officials on certain senators.

Another three days of surveillance passed while they waited for either information or the right package to arrive. Three days of hanging around in each other's company, of spending hour upon hour, shoulder to shoulder, in the surveillance van, of tailing de Lorenzo from one shady meeting to another.

McRae was not certain who opened up first but, by the end of those three days, he reckoned he had poured out most of his recent history, and gained much of Wiseman's in return.

They had talked about the women they had loved, married and lost, and of having to stand by and watch as those beloved ex-wives went on without them, starting new lives with new husbands. At least he had not suffered the additional trauma of losing contact with a child as well. He could feel the pain emanating from Wiseman as he talked of all the things he would miss: seeing his daughter graduate, meeting her first real boyfriend, seeing her all dressed up for her first Prom.

There had been livelier topics too, and McRae was amazed at how much of the culture surrounding his youth was known intimately to Wiseman, even though there had to be well over a decade between their ages. It seemed as if Wiseman had watched the same shows, listened to the same music, learned the same language of that era. It was a good feeling and McRae realized how much he had missed having someone to just talk to, especially after his former partner moved on to greener pastures.

He recalled the last time he took a good hard look at the people in his unit. It seemed as if he and Evan's were the only ones left from their generation. Most of the cops were young, having been detectives for only a very short while, taking up the unwanted posts as a springboard to the better divisions of homicide and vice. Rarely did anyone stay too long for there was no glory in what they did in the Firearms unit. McRae smiled. Even if he managed to pull the biggest dealer off the street after working months, maybe even years, on the case, any pleasure was short-lived. A swift court appearance, two years suspended sentence and a hefty fine was all they ever seemed to get. In return, McRae got a single finger salute as they walked out of the court room to step into their expensive cars, and then he went home to find his apartment had been trashed and acid poured over his own wreck of a car.

McRae grinned wryly, the grin fading as Wiseman scrunched up his face in query.

"Just thinking."

"Are you getting paid for that?"

"Ha, ha, ha. Wiseguy. It you really want to know, I was thinking about what happens when we find de Lorenzo's supplier. You know he'll just walk away, set up some place else."

"Not this time."

"Yeah, sure." McRae gave a sardonic lift of one eyebrow. "They always walk. They have the fancy lawyers and a useless justice system on their side. At the end of the day, the only one who gets hurt is me." McRae narrowed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief at what he had just admitted to himself, and to Wiseman. "Shit! I really don't understand what I'm still doing here?"

"Working to pay off the huge claim I'm gonna make against you when they diagnose me with lung cancer."

McRae took in another deep drag on his cigarette as he glared at Wiseman. He exhaled through the driver's window, catching Wiseman's flapping hand as the gentle breeze blew most of it straight back in, then added the remainder of the cigarette to the pile in the ashtray, grinding it viciously.

"You nag more than Kelly ever did."

"Maybe I care more... about myself that is."

"Hell. Got me worried then. Thought you might actually give a damn about me."

The radio screeched, putting an end to that conversation but leaving an uneasy feeling settling deep inside each man.

"Squad 9512."

McRae reached for the handset, answering the call and listened as their back-up team revealed the contents of the latest package intercepted. McRae looked up at Wiseman in triumph.

"Bingo. One package containing eight ceramic hand guns. The sender is a small corporation called Geft Enterprises, a known, but unproved, front for one of the big gunrunners."

"So, we arrest de Lorenzo?"

"Nope. We can't touch him. No doubt he'll still have a federal firearms license that will cover owning those guns. Only way to take him down is to catch him in the act of selling without adhering to the Sale of Firearms."

"I have to ask. Is there any point to your job?"

"Nope, although I'd dearly love to see that scum-sucking maggot sent down. Seen a lot of kids killed with the weapons he sells."

Wiseman nodded, having already witnessed de Lorenzo selling to young street punks in the inner city ghettos, and knowing that these same guns would, eventually, end up in the hands of kids as young as nine or ten years of age. As an insurance salesman for so many years, he could quote the statistics of gun-related deaths in those particular areas of New York. Those same figures set the recommendation for who could or could not purchase a life insurance policy through Global Empire. After all, Global was not in the area of taking unnecessary risks with its stockholders money.

"So we report this to Evans, and he decides the next move -- Get down."

McRae and Wiseman ducked as de Lorenzo came storming out of his house, cellphone in hand, looking first one way and then another as if searching for something. McRae took the risk of lifting his head after most of a minute had passed, and found himself staring directly into de Lorenzo's angry eyes. De Lorenzo mouthed a single word, 'you', his face contorted in rage but, instead of approaching the undercover surveillance car, de Lorenzo backed off, stalking back to his house, fingers stabbing on the keypad of his cellphone. McRae grabbed the radio handset.

"Dispatch from Squad 9512. We've been made."

"Roger 9512. Suggest you get out of there."

-ooOOoo-

McRae sank into his seat and switched on the PC, staring at the gibberish that filled the screen as the machine booted up and thinking back over the past few hours. By the time they reached Geft Enterprises, all trace of the ceramic guns had gone, but Wiseman's people did not seem too upset. After all, they had succeeded in their aim; they had disrupted the major supply line bringing the guns into the city. It would not keep them out indefinitely but McRae knew it could be months before the people behind Geft managed to set up a new supply network.

McRae gazed across at Michael Wiseman realizing that he was going to miss the other man despite having known him for only two weeks. He could not quite put his finger on why, but he knew they had some how reached a rapport, an easy friendship despite their inauspicious beginning.

"So where do you go from here?"

"Home?" Wiseman frowned, wondering when he had started to call the expensive but sterile apartment on 63rd and Madison his home. Another thought crossed his mind and he reached for a piece of paper and a pen. Quickly, he scribbled down the address and slipped the note across the desk surreptitiously. "You ever need me, that's where you'll find me."

McRae's eyebrows raised at the address and he whistled, knowing it was an expensive part of town. Way out of his own price range.

"McRae? What you still doing here? The case is finished. I told you to take the rest of the day off."

Both men glanced up as Evan's stopped beside them.

"Yeah, I heard you... just clearing my desk."

"Matt, take the safe house for a few days this time. OK? Just in case."

Michael frowned as Evans walked away. He waited until Evans was out of earshot and then turned to McRae.

"In case of what?"

"In case some irate dealer decides to rearrange my apartment for me in retribution. Happens quite a lot after we bring someone in, or close down a supply line-- McRae gave a sour expression "--albeit temporarily."

"So you're gonna take him up on that safe house?"

"Nah. If they're gonna trash the apartment then it's already been done. Might as well go home and start clearing up the mess."

-ooOOoo-

Michael kept McRae's car in sight as they crawled through the mid-afternoon traffic. He knew he was supposed to go straight back to his own apartment and await instructions for his next assignment, but he could not help feeling a sense of unease.

Their final parting had been strained, as if both of them had so much to say but knew there was little point starting a conversation, and yet they lingered, taking longer than necessary to clear the desk and pick up their belongings. McRae had offered his hand when the time came, and Michael found himself almost clutching at it, like a lifeline, knowing from the strength of McRae's grip, although so fragile compared to his own, that Matt was just as reluctant to say this goodbye.

Michael looked down at his hands, clenched tight around the steering wheel, and eased his grip before he snapped the metal. He let his senses dwell on the warmth of McRae's hand, on the slight roughness of the palm, on the slight caress of the thumb on the back of his own hand. He ached, deep down inside, and was momentarily confused by the longing that filled him.

He had liked McRae from the moment they met in Evan's office. There had been something about the other man that had drawn his attention, some subliminal body language that had called to him in a way no one else had since Lisa. He smiled as he recalled the initial glare aimed towards him by McRae, but now he recognized it for what it was: a defense mechanism, meant to stop anyone from getting too close. It had not worked for either of them and he found himself caring about the lean, tired man before they had even been formerly introduced.

As the days passed Michael discovered his first impression of McRae was right. He had heard his fair share of smooth lies since the day his brain woke up without the rest of his body, but McRae was a straight-talker, preferring to let everyone know where he stood.

As an insurance salesman who had climbed the ranks at Grand Empire, Michael had learned a lot about people. He had instincts for when someone was being evasive or was embellishing the truth. After all, that was part of the insurance world, zeroing in on those making false claims, digging down to the truth so Grand Empire would not have to pay out. A well-remembered feeling of unease filled him as he recalled the way Grand Empire had tried to wriggle out of paying his own life insurance to Lisa. He still felt guilty for all the pain and fears she and Heather must have gone through while they took on that mighty corporation, cursing himself for not considering how they would treat her. He shook that guilt aside and concentrated on his feelings for Matthew McRae.

Here was a man who, unknowingly, shared so much of the past with him. They had a lot in common; good times and bad, likes and dislikes. It had been so long since he had a friend he could talk to, someone who could relate to the pain that he used to feel in every waking moment as he thought of the life he had lost.

A vicious thought slid into his mind. If Lisa and Heather were dead then, at least, he would have had reason to move on, but how could he when he knew they were alive and well. He did not blame Lisa for finding a new love, for making a new life for herself and their daughter. After all, originally she had been told he was dead and then... He left the rest of that thought alone.

He had expected her to feel the same way as him, but had discovered, under painful circumstances, that her feelings had been far different. Not that she had not loved him. Far from it but, to Lisa, her feelings were tied to an image she had of him... and the new Michael Wiseman did not fit that image. He wondered how he might had felt if their circumstances had been reversed. What if Lisa had come back in the body of an eighty year old woman? Would he still have loved her as he did now? He hoped he would not be so shallow.

As the original Michael Wiseman, fresh out of college, and standing on the bottom rung of Grand Empire Insurance, he had made his vow to love and honor Lisa, until death do us part. Theoretically, he had died, but no one knew better than he that theory and reality were not the same.

He lived.

He remembered the love he felt for Lisa, and he recalled those vows they made when they became husband and wife. He had spent the first year of his new life peeking in through the window, watching as she rebuilt her life without him, unable to do the same without her. It had been so hard, each step she had taken away from him stabbing him hard in the chest, each kiss freely given to another twisting in the knife.

Then he had spent another year devastated by her reaction to the truth of his continued existence.

Two years without the woman he loved, without the daughter he adored. Two years without their love and companionship to support him, and without the companionship of the close friends they had made both individually and together.

Two years with only the company of a man who oscillated between mentor and owner, a man who often reminded him of his science project status as a way of keeping a barrier between them.

Two years alone, until now.

Sometime during the long hours together he had connected with Matthew McRae on a deeply personal level, recognizing in the other man the same needs that he felt, seeing the same reflection of pain and loss, the same desire for someone to ease the loneliness.

It was Dr. Morris who had imposed his initial exile from the human race and Michael had spent the first year of his new existence alone, still held by the vows and friendships of his previous life, still living in the hope of regaining back that former life. He had spent the second year in mourning for the life that had gone from him forever, snatched away by the very person he had hoped to be with forever. Since then, Morris had tried setting up several possible romantic interludes for him, but he had felt no spark of interest in any of the woman brought to him; in fact, no attraction at all beyond the mere physical.

They had all been pretty but each had merely served to remind him of what he had lost. His interest; physical, sexual and mental, waning almost instantly as he compared them to Lisa.

It had never seemed to occur to Morris - or himself until now - that what he had needed was a friend. Someone to watch a Knicks game with, someone to share a few beers with after a long, harrowing day saving the country - or at least, saving someone's election campaign. Someone to sit quietly with when he was too tired for words.

McRae's car pulled against the kerb side outside a crumbling old tenement building. His heart went out to the hunched figure, with bowed head and hands shoved deep into pockets, as he watched McRae cross the street, stoically ignoring the stage whispers and pig snorts, and climb the steps. The door opened as he approached, another occupant, perhaps even a neighbor, deliberately cold-shouldering him, shoving passed as if McRae was beneath his notice.

Michael felt anger build inside him. McRae was a man who put his life on the line every single day to try and put a stop to the vicious circle of violence that filled the same streets that he lived upon, but here he was being treated like a social leper. It took several deep breaths to calm himself down and, all the time, he debated on whether he should pay McRae that visit, invite himself in for a few beers, sprawl on the man's couch and watch TV. Instead, he sat in the car and waited - and watched. Just as he had waited and watched Lisa from afar.

Darkness fell, the shadows lengthening along the dirty street. Gradually, lights came on in the apartment buildings and, for a brief moment, he saw McRae clearly, drawing the curtains to shut out the rest of the world. The temperature plummeted further as another hour passed, and Michael started to shiver, wishing he had brought a coat or jacket with him. He missed the warmth coming off McRae in waves as they sat side by side while staking out de Lorenzo's place. He missed the brushes of physical contact: an elbow jostling as they sought to get comfortable, a shoulder rubbing as they turned to talk, fingers touching as they both reached into the packet of donuts at the same time.

He started another internal debate on whether he should go up to the apartment, knock on the door and make some excuse about being in the neighborhood, or whether he should just drive away and get on with his lonely non-existence.

The decision was taken from him when a car pulled up outside, disgorging four mean looking thugs. For all Michael knew they could be McRae's next door neighbors, but there was something about them that made him think otherwise, a slight hesitancy by the leader as he glanced at the external mailboxes before yanking the door open.

The four men powered into the building, not allowing anything or anyone to get in their way. Michael decided they had to be up to no good and he followed a little way behind. By the time he reached the fifth floor he could hear the sound of splintering wood and a crash, followed by yells and the slap of flesh upon flesh. Wiseman faltered on the threshold in shock. Two of the men were holding McRae tight by his arms while a third drove a fist into McRae's already bloodied face, then into his stomach. The fourth man, armed with a baseball bat, was smashing anything within reach. Sparks flew from the television as the screen imploded in a shower of glass.

Moments later there was a crunch as the man hitting McRae flew across the room to smash into the far wall. The two holding onto McRae let go, one of them aiming a swift kick to McRae's ribs before turning to face the newcomer, but he missed and, instead, Wiseman felt two of the man's own ribs break under the power of the fist he drove into the larger frame. The second man went flying as Michael spun around, aiming a vicious kick to the stomach. Michael turned as the baseball bat went sailing towards his head, grabbing it with one hand and halting its momentum. He twisted it out of the fourth thug's grasp and, with a wicked smile, he snapped the solid wood in half easily, enjoying the wide-eyed shock in the assailant's face. The man looked from his face to the two pieces of baseball bat held in readiness as weapons in his hands, then turned and ran. The other three staggered off after him.

Michael dropped the broken pieces of wood and sank to his knees beside McRae, offering an arm to help him to sit up.

"You okay?"

McRae grunted in pain as he moved, arms wrapped around his stomach, doubling over to ease the pressure as he tried to regain his breath, eventually letting out a long sigh. McRae glanced around the apartment through a rapidly swelling eye and Wiseman found himself following that gaze and frowning at the terrible mess. There was glass and debris everywhere. A bookshelf had been pulled over, the contents spilling over the floor of the one room apartment.

"Look. Grab what you need. You can't stay here tonight. You're coming back with me."

-ooOOoo-

The harsh glare of the bathroom light reflected off the large panel mirror set across one wall, filling every corner of the room with brightness that was almost painful. McRae shrugged out of his torn green-plaid shirt, dropping it onto the tiled floor. Gingerly, he stripped off the tight black T-shirt, hissing as the action pulled on his abused stomach muscles and arms. The T-shirt was discarded, joining the shirt in a small untidy pile.

McRae turned back and studied his reflection. He was a mess.

His left eye was swollen from cheek to brow, the angry red already starting to mottle into shades of purple and blue. Blood caked his cheek from the split over the cheekbone and his lip was slightly swollen and bruised on the same side. Fortunately, it was not split as well. He knew, from experience, how painful a split lip could be, and how long it took to heal so at least he had been spared that particular misery. In unwelcome remembrance, his finger traced the deep line that cut just off-center down his lower lip, recalling the occasion when he had gained that scar.

He pushed the old memory away and focused on the rest of his battered frame. His good eye roamed down his torso to the large, livid purple, blue and red bruise that stretched across his abdomen, just below the rib cage. Every movement seemed to pull on those abused muscles, every breath adding to the ache but, again, he had got off lightly. No ribs were cracked or broken, none of his internal organs had been ruptured. He was bruised and a little sore, but otherwise intact.

McRae looked back up into his eyes, staring deep as if he could see right to the bottom of his soul. The visible pupil was a pinpoint of darkness within the smoky green iris, contracted under the brightness that seemed to highlight every line in his tired, pain-filled face.

"I'm too old for this shit."

McRae closed his eyes to block out the sight of his damaged forty-one year old body, leaning hard on the counter top, head bowed in momentary defeat. From somewhere deep inside, he drew upon the last reserves of his energy and pulled himself upright. He glanced at his watch. It was just after ten and Wiseman had warned him that the lights would go out at eleven. It seemed a little strange that Wiseman had no control over the activation of the lights in this obviously up-market apartment, but McRae was really too tired to give a damn right now. All he wanted was to get cleaned up and then get some sleep.

-ooOOoo-

Behind the mirror Doctor Theodore Morris watched as Matthew McRae stripped off his watch and laid it on the counter top, his eyes studying the unsuspecting figure standing in front of him, both professionally and with pleasurable interest. He compared the natural beauty against the one he had created and breathed life into, and decided they complimented each other perfectly. McRae was slightly taller but he had that same leanness of well-defined muscles sliding silkily under slightly more translucent flesh. The paler skin of the torso spoke of years with little exposure to the sun, but it was obvious that McRae was no couch potato. There was not a single ounce of fat, nor atrophy of muscle, and his movements, although more awkward due to the beating he had sustained, still held a catlike grace that came from good balance and coordination.

He appraised the damage professionally, watching the way McRae favored the injuries, but he decided that it was only bruising. Morris started singing softly to himself, the same song that had passed his lips when Michael Wiseman first stared through new eyes at his new body.

"On the day that you were born the angels got together,  
and decided to create a dream come true.  
So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair  
and golden starlight in your eyes were... green."

He watched as McRae finished undressing, admiring the sleek lines revealed as the grubby pale blue jeans were eased to the floor, the boxer shorts following almost instantly. McRae turned away and started to run a bath, squirting a generous amount of bubble bath into the water and then leaning over to swirl the mixture, unaware of the pleasing sight he presented to the observer, and Morris whistled softly in appreciation.

He had always been mesmerized by the human body, enthralled by the mechanics that turned a lump of organic material into a living, breathing, thinking entity. Every human was built to this similar blueprint, only fundamental differences in the genes determining race, characteristics, intelligence, colour, male or female. His dream had been to create an evolution of humanity, a new man who would be less prone to disease, who would be stronger and faster, whose life span would be greater. He had succeeded, but at a cost. The only organization willing to foot the research bill had been the Government, but their vision and his own differed in how that research would be used. Morris wanted to unravel the human genome, to eradicate the many diseases and afflictions caused by defective genes. The Government wanted a race of superhuman warriors who would become a vital weapon in their armory.

Morris grinned. Choosing the brain of Michael Wiseman to fill his creation had been his greatest gamble, a necessary one at the time, and one that had almost ended in failure. He had managed to convince the research board that Wiseman was the best choice, that they needed someone who was not violent by nature, someone who was intelligent, but ordinary. Someone who could be manipulated and, to an extent, Michael had fit the bill perfectly and yet, despite everything that had happened over these past two years, Michael was still the same forty-five year old insurance agent now inhabiting a young - and if he did say so himself - beautiful body.

As Morris watched McRae ease himself into the bubble-filled bath, he recalled the desperate race to reach Wiseman and his fleeing family before the Government execution squad found them first. Of course, he had succeeded. He had brought all the Wiseman's under his protection and he had even let Michael explain everything to Lisa. Then he had helped Michael ride out the shock of discovering that Lisa had managed to move on without him. She could not reconcile this new face and body with the man she had loved and married, could not deal with the idea of looking ten years his senior, and aging more rapidly. She did not want to have the neighbors talking about her and her new toy boy.

"I'm so sorry, Michael. But you're not the man I married."

Those had been the words she spoke before turning and walking away, leaving Morris to pick up the pieces. That had been almost one year ago and, until these last few weeks, Michael had shown little interest in any other being: man or woman.

Morris let his eyes wander over the relaxed figure, seeing the heaviness of McRae's eyes as the water lulled him towards sleep.

Some how, McRae had reached through Michael's defenses. Perhaps it was the fact that they came from similar backgrounds, grew up in the same times and places, but Morris had noticed the life coming back into his creation's deep blue eyes. He had seen the apathy dissipate as Michael started to look forward to each day once more, unusually eager to spend hour upon hour sitting in an unmarked car despite his complaints about the amount of smoke he was inhaling.

It was for this reason, and this reason only, that he had not intervened when Michael brought McRae into this secret apartment. Morris had long since recognized that there was far more to the human mind than a bunch of neurons. Humans needed companionship, needed care and affection - needed to love and be loved, to touch and be touched. It was Michael's love for his wife that had sustained him through the first year, and its loss that had nearly destroyed him during the year that followed.

Morris recalled his failed attempts to rekindle a relationship from specially selected females; all beautiful, all willing, but Michael had shown no interest at all.

He sighed heavily as he stared at the handsome, tired man, sprawled carelessly in a bath full to the brim with water and bubbles. He prided himself on his intelligence but it had never truly occurred to him that the friendship Michael needed might be as much of a mental as of a physical nature.

His eyebrow raised when he noticed Michael hovering on the threshold of the bathroom, hand raised falteringly before tentatively knocking. Morris listened carefully to the conversation that followed.

"Hey. How're you doing?"

McRae opened his good eye and tried to welcome Michael with a smile, but the pull on his damaged flesh caused him to grimace instead.

"Sore. Feel like I went ten rounds with Mike Tyson." McRae's looked at Wiseman askance. "Still can't figure out how you managed to get those guys off me."

"Adrenaline. Remember those incidences of old ladies moving cars to save a baby--"

"Adrenaline?" McRae did not sound all that convinced of the answer.

"Yeah."

"So you're not on angel dust or nothing?"

"Take a lot of vitamins, eat my weetos every morning. Does that count?"

McRae snorted. "Don't think so."

"Lights out in twenty. Thought I ought to warn you again."

Morris glanced at his watch in shock, wondering where the time had gone. Could he really have been so deep in thought that he had lost almost half an hour?

"Could use a hand getting out of here."

-ooOOoo-

Michael grabbed McRae's forearm and helped him to stand, almost letting go when he felt a shiver race through his body at the feel and sight of McRae's solid, wet flesh. The sensation arrowed into his groin as he watched the shiny droplets of water trickle down the warm flesh, running in tiny rivulets over the muscular chest. One droplet clung to a puckered nipple, and Michael felt a momentary urge to lap up the droplet before it fell. He felt his cheeks redden in embarrassment, wondering where these strange thoughts were coming from but he could not deny that it had been a long, long time since he had felt these sensations running through his body; his dreams of Lisa disappearing quickly after her final parting words.

He covered his embarrassment by turning to fetch the thick bath towel, averting his eyes as McRae rubbed himself dry before wrapping the towel around his naked frame.

"Would you mind drying my hair?" McRae caught Michael's attention, and pointed to a smaller towel. "Hurts when I lift my arms too high. Pulls on my stomach."

"Yeah... sure."

Michael rubbed briskly, his fingers sometimes catching at damp strands of dark blond hair. He wondered what they would feel like when dry. Would they be soft like the whispers of Lisa's hair? Or was a man's hair coarser? Or maybe it would be silkier? He pulled away sharply as he realized the path his thoughts were traveling, unsure of the sexual undertone in wanting to compare McRae so favorably with Lisa. Michael cleared his throat.

"I'll let you finish off then we'll quickly sort out the sleeping arrangements. I don't have a spare bedroom."

"I can sleep on the couch--"

"I don't think you'll find it that comfortable. Not with those bruises."

Michael wandered out of the bathroom, aware that McRae was following him clad only in the towel. He moved into the bedroom and stared at the large bed, shivering uncontrollably when McRae brushed passed him. McRae glanced at Michael over his shoulder.

"If you don't mind sharing then the bed looks plenty big enough."

Michael gazed wide-eyed at McRae, debating whether he ought to go set up a bed on the couch for himself, but he could not think of a good excuse. McRae was right. The bed was big enough for both of them to stretch out, and if it was not for this unexpected and unwanted desire that had reared its ugly head, then Michael would have not thought twice about sharing.

Michael groaned softly as his thoughts centered on the rearing head beneath his pale blue pajama bottoms, fortunately concealed beneath his bathrobe. He was confused, feeling like a teenager all over again, unable to control his own thoughts and body. If McRae had been some hot, blond female then he might have understood his reaction, but this was Matthew McRae, a cop - an ex-married cop who still had feelings for the wife who had left him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Almost lights out. I have a spare set of pajamas if you're--"

"Thanks, but no thanks. Prefer to sleep in the raw."

Michael quickly discarded his bathrobe and clambered into his chosen side of the bed. He turned away, denying himself the urge to watch McRae drop his towel, instead he closed his eyes and held his breath for several long minutes. Not long after, they were plunged into darkness. Dead on eleven, just as it had been from the very beginning. McRae's soft voice filled the darkness with strangely welcome warmth.

"G'night."

"Yeah. Night."

Michael found himself listening to the small rustle of movement as McRae settled, then he focused on the soft breathing that gradually deepened as the exhausted man succumbed to his fatigue. He turned over onto his back and stared up to where he could just make out the ceiling, letting his thoughts flow over him.

I love Lisa. I love women. OK, so I did play a few games with the other guys back in high school, but everybody does. It was just fooling around, macho games. It didn't mean anything. Doesn't mean I'm gay. And I loved Lisa. I married Lisa. I had a child with Lisa. I don't love men. I liked Roger but, damnit, he was my best friend. Never wanted to sleep with him though. Hold up. What's this sleep with? Do I want to sleep with Matt? Wait, I am sleeping with him. Don't be so obtuse, Mikey. You know what I mean. Or do I?

He sighed heavily and squeezed his eyes shut. There were so many different feelings spinning through him; confusion and desire at the forefront. It had been so long since he had desired anyone other than Lisa. Not that he had not looked at other women appreciatively. He recalled taking pleasure in the sight of those curvaceous bikini-clad bimbos on Baywatch - in the days when he had a television.

Don't recall feeling the same way about David Hassel-whatever.

McRae moaned very softly as he turned in the bed, and yet the sound vibrated through every fiber of Wiseman's being, resonating along his nerves and tingling in every nerve ending.

This is ridiculous. I'm a man for God's sake... and he's a man. He was a married man... but so was I. And I still am. No, you're not. Your marriage to Lisa ended with the issue of your death certificate. She has a new husband now, a new life.

He almost sat upright in startlement but restrained himself at the last moment.

"Damn."

"Hmm?"

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Go back to sleep."

Michael let his thoughts wrap around what had startled him. It was the lack of pain he felt when thinking of Lisa. When did he stop hurting? When had he started healing? The answer whispered through the darkness in the form of a rustle of sheets and the warmth of another body brushing up against his own. He had stopped hurting some time over the past two weeks. He had stopped dwelling on what he had lost after sharing that loss with someone new.

No. I will not believe this. I will not accept that I've fallen in love - with a man.

"You okay, Michael?"

Michael jumped slightly on hearing McRae's gentle voice. He closed his eyes momentarily, praying he had not been talking out loud.

"Yeah... just a little tense after what happened."

 

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" More rustling as Matt turned to face him. A soft, hesitant whisper followed. "I know how to make you feel relaxed."

Michael froze as a warm hand trailed over his hip, rubbing gently in slow circles across his stomach, gradually rising until the fingers brushed over one nipple with each completion of the circle. He gasped softly, breathing becoming ragged, as each caress across the sensitive bud sent a wave of warmth racing downward to pulse in his groin. Michael closed his eyes, concentrating on those gentle fingers, and on the sensations slowly building. He sucked in his breath as the hand traveled back down his body, circling over his hardened erection, before encircling his shaft and sliding from the base to the flared head. The slightly roughened pad of the thumb teased over the sensitive head, smearing the evidence of his arousal.

The hand kept up a slow movement, sliding up and down, the thumb giving tantalizing flicks against the glans, sending spikes of pleasure through him.

Michael heard sobbing and then realized the low groans of pleasure, frustration and pain were coming from him. He grabbed at the teasing hand, enclosing it in his own, crushing it harder against his aching flesh, dictating the rhythm and pressure. His moans became cries, his hand forcing Matt's to go faster until annihilation swept over him, his mind spinning out of control, overload cascading through his body as every muscle seemed to tense and release.

When, finally, he came back to himself, Michael found his hand still holding Matt's firmly, both of their fingers coated in warm, sticky fluid.

"Oh god."

He let go of Matt's hand and pushed back the damp sheet.

"You okay?"

He nodded his head then realized Matt might not be able to see as clearly in the darkness.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Just been a long time since... I'm fine." Michael turned onto his side to face Matt, his voice full of concern as he considered his possible selfishness. "What about you?"

"I'm fine."

"Not going to leave you high and dry if--"

"You haven't."

Michael allowed Matt to draw his hand towards the other's body. His fingers trailed for a moment in something warm and slippery splashed across Matt's abdomen, and he snatched his fingers back when he realized what it was.

"See. I took care of myself."

Like you always do.

That thought rippled through Michael, tinged with sadness. Suddenly, he felt so selfish as he remembered the forlorn, hunched figure being jostled aside as Matt entered his own apartment building earlier that day. He whispered softly, a promise in the dark that he hoped he would be able to keep in the light of the day.

"Next time, let me take care of you."

Matt swallowed audibly and turned his face away, only glancing back when Michael handed him some Kleenex to clean himself up. The damp bed sheet was discarded and Michael drew the soft quilt over them both, turning to snuggle into the warmth of the body next to him. He wrapped his hand over Matt carefully, not forgetting the bruises from the earlier beating, and closed his eyes, sleeping well for the first time in years.

-ooOOoo-

Morris sighed as he switched off the infrared camera.

"Looks like my baby's all grown up now."

Despite all the wet dreams Michael had experienced since being placed into his new body, he had always awoken before he came, leaving Michael frustrated and out of sorts for the rest of the day. Morris had tried many times, through various means, to test his creation's sexual response but, until now, the test had only taken place within the laboratory, with just the shell. There had been a real fear that an overload on the body's senses might affect the brain's connections but, now, he could lay that fear to rest. Now he could be certain that the brain of Michael Wiseman was fully integrated with this body.

He uploaded the details to the main computer and closed down the station.

"Time to leave these two love birds alone."

With heavy footsteps he trudged out of the secret entrance and climbed into his car. As he drove away, Morris reflected on what he had seen today, and he sighed. Something in the way Michael looked at Matthew McRae told him that this was no experiment, nor any grabbed opportunity for sexual relief. He saw the same look that used to come into Michael's eyes whenever he spoke of Lisa. He saw love reflected there, and he was afraid of what would happen when McRae turned and walked away, just as Lisa had done.

-ooOOoo-

When they awoke the following morning, the sun was streaming through the opened curtains. Neither felt any inclination to start the day, lying silently side by side, staring hard at the ceiling.

It was Saturday, and Matt was not expected back in the office until Monday. He glanced at the bedside clock and sighed deeply. Time to get up and go. His actions were preempted as Michael spoke.

"What are your plans today?"

"Thought I'd go clean up the mess at my apartment.. again."

"You don't sound too eager."

"Yeah... well... I've been there seven years and I still can't call it home."

"Then stay here today."

"And do what?"

"Well, let's see. I haven't got a television, or a radio, or a computer--"

"Got any beer? Cigarettes?"

"Nope. Got fruit juice. Orange, pineapple, mango, prune.. you name it, I've got it... but no beer.. and definitely no cigarettes."

"Hmm..."

"Could go out for a Devil dog and a beer? Watch the TV at the bar?"

Matt looked deep into Michael's clear blue eyes, feeling more than just the heat rise in his body. This man was so beautiful, both inside and out. He looked away, his cheeks reddening when he realized the direction his thoughts were taking him, but then he realized that this might be the one and only opportunity they would get, and he was uncertain if he could live with the regret of saying nothing. He took his courage in his hands and looked back into those beautiful eyes.

"Or we could stay here... in bed. I reckon we could figure out some entertainment of our own?"

Michael cleared his throat and then swallowed hard, aware of the courage it must have taken for Matt to say those words. He found himself falling into the fear-tinged eyes,  
remembering the feel of that gentle hand and the sound of that velvet soft voice in the darkness of the night before. Michael reached out and touched the damaged face, his finger tracing the outline of the bruise, noticing that it did not seem quite so bad in the light of the day.

"I thought you'd be really uncomfortable with all this. I know I'm a little..."

"Uneasy? Afraid?" Matt smiled wryly. "I don't really understand what's happening either. Just know I feel..."

Matt shook his head, unable to put into words the feelings inside him. At high school he was considered one of the jocks. He loved athletics of any kind: football, basketball, and baseball. He'd always been good at sports, working his body hard - and playing hard too, both on and off the pitch or court. He'd never considered the locker room games to be anything more than just fun, certainly never considered them as cheating on Kelly, but then, he had never had any intention of taking that particular fun beyond the locker room - until now.

He remembered the feel of Michael's hardened shaft in his hand, the warm flesh like satin over steel, and he remembered the strength in the fingers that tightened around his hand, so strong and yet so gentle too. However, unlike with those locker room games, there was far more to the moment they shared than just the physical sensations. There was a connection between them that the darkness of the room and the heaviness of the covers could not mute.

".. I feel that it's right. Between us, that is."

Michael smiled, aware that they seemed to be communicating on the same level yet again. Matt was right. With anyone else this would have seemed so very wrong, a betrayal of all he had shared with Lisa, but with Matt he felt alive again, like he had lost one soul-mate in Lisa and found another in Matt. He licked his dry lips and whispered back.

"I'm still feeling a little overwhelmed by all this--"

"You and me both."

"What do you say we take it slow?"

"I can do slow."

Michael reached out and touched the whispers of blond hair that had fallen across Matt's face, finally allowing himself the opportunity to appease his curiosity. The strands were silky, flowing through his fingers like a golden river. He pushed the hair aside, concentrating on the shape of the eyebrows, the slant of the nose, his finger tracing the outline of the slightly parted lips. All the while, Matt watched him through smoky green eyes, the dark pupils gradually enlarging, swallowing the iris.

Michael frowned. He knew he ought to be feeling embarrassed at touching and studying the face beneath his own so thoroughly but instead, all he felt was acceptance. It was as if touching this man was the most natural thing in the world. Michael remembered having that very same feeling with Lisa from the moment they met, and then he remembered the gentle affection he had felt for Matt from the moment they had met.

Their lovemaking was slow and gentle, each taking time to explore the other, to allow the sensations to build between them. When they came, the intensity was as great as before, and yet their cries of passion were soft gasps breathed against the other's flushed skin as they clung to each other in welcome release.

The day passed slowly, the time filled with gentle caresses as they snuggled up together, gorging themselves on tactile sensations to ease away the painful years of loneliness that lay behind them until they knew each other's bodies almost as well as their own. All their initial unease vanished as they allowed the other full reign over them, leaving no fear or awkwardness in their touch.

Michael found his sexual stamina was far higher than Matt's, but Matt seemed untroubled, taking as much pleasure from giving as from taking.

They pulled out of each other's arms only long enough to pile food onto a tray and bring it back to the bed, giggling like schoolboys, their life beyond the edges of the bed reduced to a faded memory.

"Hey. Gotta pee. Back in a minute."

Matt threw back the sheet and climbed out, but he paused on the threshold as Michael called out to him.

"Just remember what they say... more than two shakes is masturbation... and I might get jealous of that hand."

Matt laughed and carried on to the bathroom.

The sound of a single gunshot filled the apartment, and Michael felt the blood pool in his stilled heart as horror filled him. He threw back the covers and leaped from the bed, charging towards the bathroom, uncaring of his nakedness. Ahead of him was a black-clad stranger and Michael pulled back quickly as he saw a glint of light flashing from the barrel of a gun. The bullet ricocheted off the door frame, inches from him, sending sharp splinters of wood into his face. The man continued on to the door and Michael started to follow but he froze as his eye caught sight of Matt lying face down on the floor of the bathroom.

"Matt? Matt!"

Michael dropped to his knees and turned Matt over.

"No!"

There was so much blood pumping from the bullet wound in Matt's chest. Michael grabbed a bath towel, pushing it tight against the wound, watching in horror as the towel grew heavy and red in front of his eyes.

"Michael?"

Matt's voice was so weak, his eyes glazed and filled with pain. Michael found himself pulling Matt back into his arms, holding him tight against his own chest as he tried to keep the pressure on the wound.

"Shh. It's gonna be okay. Just hang in there. It's gonna--"

Figures flew into the room and he found himself staring into Morris's concerned, dark face. He raised tear-filled eyes towards his body's creator, begging for help that he felt only Morris could give.

"Please?"

Morris pulled away the towel for a moment to check the wound, his eyes filled with pity as he raised them back up to Michael.

"No. No. I won't accept that. You're a doctor. You can save him."

"I'm not a miracle worker."

"You can save him. Please. Don't let him die."

The next few hours were a blur as Matt was ripped from his arms and taken away by the paramedics. Morris refused to let him follow until he had showered and changed, knowing there was little Michael could do at the hospital anyway, except wait.

It was almost midnight by the time Matt came out of surgery and Michael took a seat beside him, reaching out to hold Matt's hand, entwining their fingers. He could hear soft whispers behind him and knew Morris was conversing with the surgeon. Eventually, Morris came to stand behind him and Michael looked up to see the dark eyes staring down at the comatose figure, watching the life support machine push air into and draw air out of the lifeless body. Morris gazed towards the monitor, and Michael's eyes followed, seeing the ECG that told him Matt was still alive inside the torn up shell of his body.

"What's the surgeon got to say?"

"McRae had a living will. They want to honor it. They want to switch off the machines."

"And then?"

"And then he dies... in peace."

"I don't want him to die."

"You have no say it, Michael. It was his decision."

Morris nodded towards the pale figure on the bed, a figure that seemed so small and fragile within the wires and tubes that preserved his flickering life.

"You can save him. You have the technology."

"We can rebuild him...?" Morris shook his head. "This isn't an episode of the Six Million dollar Man. We don't have a spare body lying around, with or without a brain. And we don't have a bionic action kit sitting on the shelf in my secret laboratory."

"There has to be something. Anything." Michael's eyes narrowed. "Give him this body. My body."

"Which head are you thinking with, Michael? The one on your shoulders or the one in your pants--"

"Fuck you!"

Morris closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm sorry."

He watched as Michael rubbed the lifeless hand against his cheek, blaming himself for this whole debacle. With all the excitement of seeing his creation complete those final experiments, watching him pass the sexual tests with flying colors, proving the full integration of body and mind, he had forgotten to cancel the other test that had been arranged. His agent had followed his orders to the letter, entering the apartment and trying to catch Michael unawares, but instead of Michael, his bullet found McRae.

A chest wound of that magnitude would have stopped Michael for maybe ten days, while they instigated repairs. For a normal human the shot had been fatal, the damage irreparable. His eyes widened as an idea came to him. Morris turned on his heel and stalked after the surgeon, catching up with him just outside.

"Dr. Jefferson? Is this man considered to be, technically, dead?"

"Yes. When you're ready we'll pull the plug."

Morris reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his ID card, waving under the surgeon's nose.

"By order of the United States Government, I claim responsibility for this man. You will sign his death certificate as of..." Morris looked at his watch "... twenty-two hours forty-three minutes this day. You will leave the life support machinery intact. My people will collect him in less than one half hour."

"But this man has a living will that..."

"My authority exceeds his wishes. Do you question that?"

"No. We'll prepare him for transportation."

Morris reached for the hospital phone and placed an external call, giving a single code word that his staff would understand, then he moved back into McRae's room. He reached out and placed a hand on Michael's shoulder.

"There is a small chance I can save him but it will take several months, maybe as much as a year to do it."

"I can wait that long."

"Yes. I know."

-ooOOoo-

Eight months later, Morris stood shoulder to shoulder with Michael behind the two-way glass as Matthew McRae opened his eyes for the first time since being shot point blank in the chest. He knew the steadily beating heart and filling lungs were those destined to have replaced Michael's should he have failed to stop the assassin sent to test him. He also knew that McRae would have awoken months ago if it had been a simple matter of performing a heart and lung transplant, but McRae's body had to be rigorously prepared first. To this end, Morris had applied his parallel line of research, that of modifying an existing body rather than creating a new one in the laboratory.

There was also the matter of justifying the expense of saving McRae's life. Genetic re-sequencing had rejuvenated the body, visibly taking almost fifteen years off. Trying to rejuvenate any further was possible but it was an increased risk that could not be justified despite the demands of several senators who saw this project as a possible fountain of youth for themselves. The gene restructuring had also made McRae less susceptible to disease and aging, although he would be no where near as perfect as Michael, but it would slow down the aging process.

The hardest part had been remembering that this particular body housed a living brain. This was no empty shell to be prodded and tested, with any mistakes causing just a shake of the head and a slapped wrist. The fine balance of working with the comatose brain's autonomic functions had caused many a scare but much had been gained from the research.

"Hello, my sleeping beauty."

Michael glanced across at an enraptured Morris, wondering if he had induced a similar reaction in the doctor at his first awakening. His eyes did not stray for long, all his attention taken by the man he had come to love more than life itself.

Matt staggered over to the mirror and look into it, his eyes widening as he saw the changes. After several shocked moments he looked beyond the mirror, focusing intently.

-ooOOoo-

To Matthew McRae the figure in the mirror was a shock, like looking at a home movie of himself taken years in the past. The lines of age and fatigue had been erased, his eyes had lost that dulled look, shining brightly like peridot. It was amazing, and wonderful. He felt as young as he looked, recognizing that the aches of the last few years had vanished without a trace.

He drew air into his lungs in a single deep breath, half expecting to feel the stabbing pain of splintered bone and ripped flesh. His last memory had been of excruciating pain, both physical due to the damage from the bullet, but mostly because of the pain he saw reflected in Michael's eyes.

Michael. Where was Michael?

Matt let his focus change, trying to look deeper into the mirror, suddenly aware that it was not all it seemed.

"Michael? Are you in there?"

-ooOOoo-

Michael grinned, loving the way his name fell from Matt's lips, overjoyed that it was his name that Matt spoke first. He turned to Morris and the Doctor chuckled warmly to himself, the request obvious in his eyes. Morris nodded, allowing Michael to be reunited with his lover of a single day.

-ooOOoo-

No one had any objections to Michael and Matt sharing an apartment as it reduced the expenses considerably, and Morris found that, despite earlier misgivings, his paymasters were extremely pleased with McRae. Here was a man who bridged the gap between the ordinary man on the street and the military, and on the few simple cases they had been sent out on over the past few months, the partnership between the two men proved as dynamically sound as their partnership in the bedroom.

Morris chuckled to himself as he watched his two creations started their nightly ritual of foreplay that usually led to some exciting and erotic encounters. He picked up his coat and turned off the light. Seeing those two beautiful bodies together could be habit forming, but it crossed the line between research and voyeurism, and Morris was a scientist first and foremost. He stepped out of the apartment through the secret door and stared at the Jaguar that had dropped to third place in his list of prize possessions. He had his own date with destiny tonight, and maybe, by the end of this coming evening, that Jaguar would have dropped to fourth place.

-ooOOoo-

Michael stroked his hand along one lean, muscular thigh, his fingers slipping in the perspiration slicking the hot flesh. Matt paused, the heavy weight of the bar resting against his chest and he gave his lover a seductive, knowing smile. He lifted the weight, muscles trembling with strain, and sighed as Michael helped to lower it onto the stand. Matt sat up and grabbed the hand towel that Michael threw at him, using it to wipe ineffectively as the sweat that was beading on his flushed face. He flicked aside the long strands of damp, blond hair that had toppled over his forehead and invited Michael to take his place on the bench.

Matt shook his head when Michael upped the size of the weights attached to the bar considerably, and then proceeded to lift with easy, fluid motions.

"Show off."

Michael grinned, counting aloud until he finished the set of fifty lifts. He paused as he lifted the weight for a second and final set, caught by the firm ass of his lover raised in the air when Matt leaned over to stretch out each calf muscle in turn as he started his cool down stretches. It was a sight that, even a year ago, would have had little impact on him but that now sucked the moisture from his mouth and the blood from his brain. Most of that blood seemed to travel south and he could feel the evidence of that in the sudden tightness of his shorts.

His brain almost short-circuited when Matt wiggled his ass provocatively.

"Damn tease."

Matt's laughter filled the air, a soft carefree sound that always filled Michael with awe and sent more ripples of delightful sensation flowing through his body to every extremity. Quickly replacing the bar on the stand, Michael raced through his own cool down stretches and followed Matt to the bathroom, enjoying this start to their nightly lover's dance. He paused on the threshold as he watched Matt strip off the sweat-soaked T-shirt before easing the boxers over his slim hips and stepping out of them. Steam from the shower was slowly filling the room, gradually concealing the ivory flesh from view. Michael caught a glimpse of teasing green eyes, looking back over Matt's shoulder before his lover disappeared inside the shower cubicle until all he could see was the hazy outline of the desirable body.

He licked suddenly dry lips and stripped off his own clothes, throwing them aside, heedless of where the landed, and then he stepped into the shower behind his lover. Matt turned quickly, but only to thrust a container of shower gel into Michael's hand.

"You can make yourself useful, and wash my back."

Michael grinned, needing no second invitation. He poured the gel onto the palm of his hand and placed the container back on the small shelf. After spending a moment lathering up the gel, he stroked the luxurious suds onto Matt's back in short circular motions. Matt moaned softly, stretching like a powerful cat, submissively lifting his arms and spreading his legs at Michael's unspoken command.

Michael reached for more of the slippery gel, but this time he stroked it along the crevice between the firm, pale ass cheeks, pausing only when he reached the opening to his lover's body. His gel-covered fingers teased at the firm ring of muscle, feeling it slowly relax, allowing his fingers to ease inside. Michael looked up as Matt leaned forward, head pillowed onto his forearms, bracing himself on the tiled wall. Leaning over the relaxed form, Michael nuzzled into the damp hair at the nape of Matt's neck, his mouth latching onto the side of the offered throat, drinking in the droplets of heated water running down the warm flesh yet still able to taste the saltiness of Matt's sweat beneath.

Matt began to thrust back onto Michael's fingers, small groans of pleasure tumbling from his parted lips as he threw back his head beneath the warm spray of water, letting the water splash over his upturned face. He stilled, trembling in expectation as Michael withdrew his fingers, pressing the blunt tip of his aching shaft against the relaxed muscle. Michael eased forward into the hot channel, eyelids fluttering at the incredible tightness that sent spikes of lust through his nerves until he was tingling from head to toe.

His eyes flew open as Matt thrust back, impaling himself upon Michael's shaft, their mutual cries of pleasure and pain muted by the sound of cascading water.

Michael grasped Matt's hips to steady himself, his hands slipping, momentarily, on the wet, soapy flesh, his fingers digging in as Matt thrust back against him once more. He used his greater strength to keep the writhing body tight against his chest, one hand snaking around the lean hips, encircling Matt's hardened flesh.

His gel-slicked fingers slid, rapidly, over the sensitive flesh, from base to tip and back again, mirroring the thrusts of his hips as he sank into the inferno of Matt's body. Instinctively, he knew his lover was close, could feel it in the tremors that ran the length of the beautiful body and in the clenching of internal muscles around his own deeply embedded flesh. Matt's head dropped backwards onto his shoulder, his back arching, fingers splaying against the wet tiles and Michael felt the slippery heat of his lover's seed oozing between his own fingers before being washed away by the flowing water.

Releasing the softening shaft, his fingers regained their hold on the lean hips. He let go of the rigid control he had imposed over his own body, thrusting hard into the welcoming body, muffling his own cry of passion against his lover's vulnerable throat as his climax overtook him.

The world as he knew it ceased to exist as both mind and body became one with the man in his arms. His senses filled with the sight, smell and touch of the more fragile figure, enthralled by the glazed expression in the pleasure-sated eyes, by the heady scent of sex filling the small enclosure, and by the texture of the silky, wet skin beneath his hands.

His softening shaft slipped from its human sheath as Matt turned in his arms, a tired but contented smile curving the beautiful lips, allowing Michael to support the weight of both their bodies. They stood for a long time beneath the warm water, letting its gentle spray massage and cleanse before Michael leaned in and kissed Matt gently. The kiss deepened, full of love, with only a ghost of their earlier passion evident.

They finished washing, cleaning away any remaining sweat of their workout and the evidence of spent passion, and then they left the shower together, bundling each other into thick bath sheets.

Later, as they lay in each other's arms, the lights already dimmed for the night, Michael let his thoughts drift back over these past months since Matt's reawakening.

At first he had been afraid that Matt would not want to resume their relationship, afraid that the Matt who awoke in the rejuvenated body might not be the same person he had come to love. Instead, Matt had moved directly into his arms on that first awakening.

Since then they had spent many hours learning how to please the other, exploring each other's reactions to touch, sharing soft words and gestures. He had never dreamed of being so open with Lisa, the very idea almost shocking but, with Matt, it was all so natural.

Beside him, Matt's breathing softened as he fell asleep. Michael listened to the slow, even breaths, reassured by the familiar sounds as Matt snuffled and moved beside him.

He thought back to the beginning, thought about the terrible subway accident that had destroyed his old life. At the time he had not known whether to be happy or sad. Years of heartbreak had followed where he had almost become convinced that he was the loneliest man on the planet, his pleasure in gaining a new life in a new body lost within the maelstrom of emotions that had ripped him apart.

Now, as he snuggled up against the curve of the warm back, he realized he was the luckiest man on the planet. He had been given two chances at life, and each had given him a wonderful loving partner. He would always love Lisa, would always have a special place in his heart reserved for her and the times they shared but, as he wrapped his arms around Matt, he knew that he would never survive losing this new love of his life. His fingers stroked along the soft skin, teasing a nipple.

A sleepy mumble floated across, muffled by the covers.

"It's a weekday."

Michael froze then relaxed when he felt the fine tremor run through the body in his arms, realizing that Matt was trying not to laugh.

"Damn tease."

Matt rolled over and kissed Michael soundly, rubbing his body up against his lover, giving Michael that special, teasing smile that was just visible in the darkened room... and they began their lover's dance all over again.

THE END


End file.
